Alas, Marius suspected Rogue had fractured his jaw, Amber had been kicked everywhere, and even after a lethal cocktail of champagne, whisky and Nurofen, any lovemaking had resulted in ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’
Neither was into masochism so they fell into a fitful sleep, to be woken by Painswick bringing them cups of tea with averted eyes and pursed lips. Once again she had found her office a tip, with papers all over the floor, empty bottles, glasses everywhere and a disgusting smell of burnt tinned tomato soup.
As Florence Nightingale, Marius was clearly a washout.
‘People have been leaving messages all night asking after Wilkie and congratulating you on winning the Gold Cup,’ said Painswick tartly. ‘Her Majesty, the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury all sent texts. Flowers, consignments of Polos and carrots keep arriving. And the press are at the gate.’
‘I’ll shoot the buggers,’ snapped Marius, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Bring me a large whisky – please. How’s Wilkie?’
‘Terribly depressed. She walked out sound but she won’t eat up. Furious seems fine. The press want to know what time Furious and Rafiq are going to make a victory parade through Willowwood and when’s the party. And they all want to talk about you and Amber and Rogue.’
‘I’m not talking to anyone, I’ve got a black eye.’ Amber peered at herself in the dusty mirror.
‘Neither of us has anything to say to the press,’ snarled Marius. ‘Amber’s moved in. End of story. Has anyone done the declarations?’
‘Not yet, and you’re not going to like this.’ Painswick dropped the Scorpion on the honeysuckle-patterned counterpane.
‘Omigod,’ groaned Amber, a few seconds later. ‘Bloody, bloody Mum’s done it again. THE LIVING NIGHTMARE WHEN I THOUGHT MY AMBER HAD DIED. Oh my God.’
Janey Lloyd-Foxe must have written and filed her copy as fast as any of the journalists in the press room at Cheltenham. There were big pictures of Marius, Amber, Rogue and Mrs Wilkinson.
‘“Two of the most charismatic men in racing fighting over my baby,”’ read out Amber in increasing horror. ‘“When she was a teenager, my Amber had pin-up photographs of sexy champion jockey Rogue Rogers. But she also used to refer to handsome Marius as MFH, which stood for My Future Husband, and now it looks as though her dreams have come true. Our photographer caught Amber locked in Marius’s arms. Heart-throb Rogue could not contain his jealousy and swung his mount round and later hit tasty Marius across the winners enclosure. Rogue has lost the race and his job as Rupert Campbell-Black’s jockey. What a price to pay for love. But there was a happy ending for handsome Pakistani Rafiq Khan, my daughter’s former boyfriend, who put his dark prison past behind him and stole the show.”
‘The bitch, the bitch. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Amber clutched her head and shrieked with pain.
‘It’s all right, darling.’ Marius seized the Scorpion and thrust it at Painswick. ‘Of all the bloody tactless things to produce. Get out,’ he thundered at a reporter who’d climbed up the flagpole and was peering in.
‘They’re all the way down the drive,’ sniffed Painswick.
‘You get out as well, get out,’ roared Marius, rearing out naked from under the duvet, so Painswick scuttled. Then, turning to Amber, he saw she was in tears.
‘Doesn’t matter, we’re what matters. You stay there, I’ll go down and sort things out.’
Admiring the flat broad shoulders, the taut high bottom and the long muscular legs, Amber thought what a pity that Marius ever had to get dressed at all.
Painswick found Dora talking to Mistletoe in the kitchen.
‘Lemme go upstairs and see them.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘All my contacts want a statement. Someone’s got to deny that crap written by Janey Lloyd-Foxe. Poor Amber, what a cross to bear, even worse than my mother. Have they both got black eyes? People who look alike are supposed to be attracted to one another.’ Dora sighed. ‘Wilkie’s not speaking to anyone, I better go and interview Chisolm.’
Furious got his parade through Willowwood, wearing his black Cheltenham Gold Cup Winner rug, and managed not to kick or bite anyone. Perhaps Trixie’s euphoria, resulting from a pocketful of greenbacks from Valent and the prospect of Eddie taking her out on the toot that evening, had rubbed off. Wilkie stayed at home, still depressed.
‘Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t want to steal Furious’s thunder,’ Dora told the press.
Afterwards, having ascertained from Charlie Radcliffe that Wilkie had suffered no ill effects from her fall, Valent called an emergency meeting of the syndicate at the Wilkinson Arms, which Shagger